


La Petite Mort

by aronnaxs



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Asphyxiation, M/M, Missing Scene, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, the embodiment of mark me down as scared and horny, well sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 00:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21127847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/pseuds/aronnaxs
Summary: Heat flushes Santino’s cheeks. He looks at untamed Odysseus, the cowering suitors, their fallen companions on the ground, arrows through their backs. Their depiction is not a shred as powerful as John Wick’s fingers starting to squeeze. Rough nails cut into his flesh, half-moon imprints that will bruise. Santino’s hands curl into fists. “Do you think that this frightens me?” he utters.John’s thumb sinks into his pulse point. It is thundering. “Yes,” he says.[Until John honours his marker from Santino, he cannot kill him. But that doesn’t mean that Santino retains all the power]





	La Petite Mort

**Author's Note:**

> so there is a scene where john says he will kill santino with his bare hands, to which santino replies “how exciting”, and i WASNT supposed to write a fanfic for that???
> 
> every time i watch this movie, i want to write something for it, so have some vaguely sexual (but not really, but yes yes really) john x santino 
> 
> also shoutout to the songs which inspired this and set the mood: amphetamine (sophia somajo) and deep end (lykke li)

**L’uomo nero**, Santino thinks as he feels the dark shadow behind him. He does not turn. To glance for his guards, for Ares, would seem too much like desperation. So he stares ahead into the wild oil-paint eyes of Odysseus, stripped and poised for revenge against the depravity of Penelope’s suitors. The canvas, framed by the vacant marble busts of Agamemnon and Telemachus, is just one tiny morsel of patronage from his father’s empire.

From his empire.

“Do you think this is what this is, John?” he asks. “Do you think you can break this bond of reciprocity and my hospitality towards you?”

The shadow draws closer. Santino can smell the sweat on him. The charred fabric and singed flesh where he has survived the unfortunate inferno at his home. The ever-present tang of blood, like a second skin. He is wildness caught in human guise. That is what Santino needs.

“You know the rules, John. Until the marker is honoured, you cannot touch me. Tell me again how you would do it.”

Mocking, teasing, a low blow. Testing the waters and offering his hand to the chained, rabid dog. He is near enough now that Santino can feel the heat of his breath. There are enough guards here to blow out his brains. But John Wick has a way of clearing the room, of drawing everything into stark isolation, such is his sheer focus. That is his power, as much as all of this is Santino’s.

If he did not breathe, Santino would have thought he was alone. The silence stretches. “You kill me, you die,” Santino fills it. “You run away from me, you die. There is a code to be obeyed. I am your chain, Jonathan, I -“

A hand is around his throat. Santino freezes at the audacity. For a man to lay a finger upon the prince of the Camorra, even for a man such as John Wick, is to put an open palm into fire. No one comes. He swallows, regains the composure he can’t admit he lost. “A perfect fit,” he breathes, calloused skin rough against his own. “You’re thinking about squeezing, no?”

“What if I do?” The voice is just as coarse as his hand, right there at Santino’s ear.

“You kill me, you die,” he repeats, almost a mantra. “Those are your rules too. They separate us from the barbarians.”

“You call this civility? To hire a man to murder your own blood?”

“You’re not a man for morals and philosophy, John. You’re a weapon.”

That weapon now pulls his head back an inch or two. Santino does not struggle. Let him play his little game if that is what makes him feel better about the task - that he mused and debated and fought against it before inevitably giving in. His shield is the bonds that lock John Wick into this agreement. Santino offered his hand to John once, helped him to escape the underworld, and now that debt needs to be repaid. “It is one bullet,” he says. “One bullet of the thousands you have fired, to put me in my rightful place. If my father had not been so blind, if he had not raised my sister, we could have avoided this. Blame him, not me.”

“Who is the one trying to justify this?”

Santino hears himself chuckle. “I am at peace with it, John. And you?”

His answer is to press the heel of his palm further into his throat. The first hit of adrenaline rushes in Santino’s veins. “I have always wondered what it would be like,” he tries, “to be at the mercy of John Wick’s fury. Why people whisper your name, why they seem to cross themselves like you are _il diavolo_. But you would have already put a bullet in me if you were going to kill me. Why this show, John?”

“I told you I would use my hands.”

“But you can’t.”

In defiance, John’s hand tightens. Santino feels his fingers press into the side of his neck, his thumb tight up beneath his jaw. His shoulders stiffen. To draw this out so is madness. He is tormenting him, enough that the pressure is starting to get uncomfortable. His windpipe is just there, in the cup of John Wick’s palm. The dog is beginning to bite down. “You can’t,” he repeats, sounding breathy. “You **wouldn’t**.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

Heat flushes Santino’s cheeks. He looks at untamed Odysseus, the cowering suitors, their fallen companions on the ground, arrows through their backs. Their depiction is not a shred as powerful as John Wick’s fingers starting to squeeze. Rough nails cut into his flesh, half-moon imprints that will bruise. Santino’s hands curl into fists. “Do you think that this frightens me?” he utters.

John’s thumb sinks into his pulse point. It is thundering. “Yes,” he says.

“How dare you. Do you think they won’t come for you? If you kill me, it will be worse. You cannot run.”

Still no one comes. He should shout, but he can’t. He should struggle, but there is a helpless indignity to it. He grips John’s forearm, digging in ringed fingers, the only way he could injure him. The more he grabs on, the more John crushes his throat. His breath stutters, caught in his chest. A panicky flutter churns under his ribcage. “You’re hurting me,” he warns.

“I know.”

“Stop.”

He does not.

“I could shout,” he threatens. It is hollow, as hollow as his throat feels as John suddenly presses his full strength onto it. There isn’t even a second to draw breath, just a blink of time from when he opens his mouth to when he realises he is in danger. There is only so far a rabid dog can be baited. He grabs at John’s hand, but it is like wrestling with stone. His windpipe aches as he tries to gain even the tiniest of dry gasps. He should have known John Wick is not the kind of man to obey rules and conventions.

He is going to kill him here in the midst of his empire. The realisation is like poison. Hot sickness churns in his stomach.

There is a terrible intimacy to this. He could put a bullet in his brain, snap his neck, but no, he breathes into his ear and sinks his fingers into his arm as he squeezes hard. Santino’s eyes flutter. Maybe John is saying something to him; all he can hear is the rushing of his blood. His mind spins with the headiness of it. He cannot move, being cradled so tight that when he dies, he will fall into John’s arms.

Darkness spills like ink on his vision. Odysseus sprouts a crown of flashing lights. He chokes with pathetic, undignified moans. John’s thumb rolls into his pulse point, willing it to slow. Santino fights the edge but he can’t cheat it. His eyes roll back, head sinking into the crook of John’s shoulder.

He lets go.

Santino staggers, catching himself on the bust of Agamemnon, almost tumbling it. He splutters, lungs aching with frantic breaths. It is like a fire inside of him. If he falls, he won’t get up again. For a moment, it is like the crushing grip is still there, and he panics in a moment of helplessness.

A hand on his shoulder. He spins. Ares looks at him in question. John Wick has vanished. **L’uomo nero**. “Where the hell were you?” he spits, voice strained. “Wick was here. He -“

He realises he sounds like an angry, frightened boy. He coughs, forces down the childish fear. He retrieves his handkerchief and wipes at the sweat which sticks to his brow. There is a heated flush on his cheeks. A trickle of blood dribbles onto his lapel from the indents of rough nails. He swipes at it. “Keep your eyes open,” he orders, making his words stay stable. “He’ll be back when the task is done.”

Santino sits, legs too weak to stand. He refuses to glance over his shoulder like a trapped animal. It doesn’t stop the shadow from lingering at his back.

He’ll return, as sure as the sunset. Santino breathes slowly and rubs at the bruises which will soon bloom on his throat. Next time, John Wick won’t let go. He will squeeze and squeeze until there is only darkness.

So, Santino waits, and plans. Before him, Odysseus raises his sword to strike the marauding suitors, and take his vengeance.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback always appreciated c:


End file.
